The London School of Journalism
By Loni Klara - 1st Place
In the midst of one wintry landscape was a house that had been lit up like a bright summer day in anticipation of the coming days. The coldness outside screamed and banged around its walls but failed to stir a response, and when it realised what a painfully poor threat it looked from within the well-heated rooms, it shrugged and settled down, leaving only chilly air in its stead. Inside, a healthy fireplace cackled in triumph and spread its flames to the nearby candles on which they performed wild dances resembling the joyful inhabitants of the household, who could be seen breaking into frequent bursts of laughter that made them shake terribly. These same quaking people were responsible for the magnificent conifer tree that stood majestically in the living room, a specimen which had been quite fussed at the evening before. At the moment the tree seemed to be up for a bit of serious inspection.
“Dismal. The ribbons are too tilted. They look like they're trying to smile but stopped before they could.”
The criticism came from a young man, whose bright blue suit was a sight to behold. His hands were folded behind his back, and one of his feet was standing in front of the other as if it wanted to lunge forward but couldn't convince the other to follow suit.
“Stop it, Thomas,” twinkled a lady in a red dress that seemed to flow down to the floor like a velvet curtain. “They are not lopsided smiles. They're tiny little dance moves. Look at them bouncing about all over the tree. It gives it a dainty air.”
“Well, who, I pray, was in charge of the ribbons? We shall take it up to the guilty party,” responded Thomas, his fingers squirming as they tried to contain the giggles that lay provoked in his throat.
“Ah, ah,” the lady tutted. “Now you don't really want to find that out, do you?”
“As a matter of fact, I don't need to,” said Thomas, with a grand voice. “I know who did it.”
Now the other attendants in the room—several ladies displaying the various colours of the rainbow on their dresses, and a half-dozen gentlemen in black suits looking rather dull in comparison—were watching the two with hardly-concealed merriment. Such an explicit flirtation never went unnoticed or unappreciated if executed with taste, and tasteful this one was indeed. The exchange was like a play starring the best of actors. Those who were past their prime and could no longer operate such conversations nodded and chortled as they remembered the many from their past, while those still in possession of budding youth wriggled in their chairs, their hearts ever excitable in the pursuit of amusement.
The players continued. “Mona did the ribbons. She always does,” Thomas declared. There was a hint of foolery lurking in his voice.
“Brave soldier,” taunted the lady. “You are shamelessly wrong. It was I who thought it fit to make the ribbons dance this year.”
The audience laughed in unison, much to the embarrassment of the smitten young man. But the guffaw did not bother the brave soldier and rather urged him to take charge of the stage again. He opened his eyes incredulously—though perhaps with a faint dose of exaggeration—and produced a quick adlib.
“Really?” he muttered. “But, Lillian, my dear, you are absolutely no good at it!”
“Not good?” snorted Lillian. “Would you like to be proven wrong twice this evening?”
With this remark she suddenly dragged the young man to the middle of the room, where they broke out into a jolly jig to rival the dance of the candle flames. One by one the others in the company jumped out of their chairs and joined them, as if they had been anticipating the event all the while. Together these members made an idyllic portrait of Christmas Eve, which it most certainly was.
Sadly, one soul remained unpainted, for it was standing outside the window of the festive room. It belonged to no more than a little boy, whose dark countenance forbid him entry to the celebratory mood. He had just fled from the stable where he normally made his nightly bed. Curiosity and a small desire for company were the guides that had led him to the big window, through which he knew his happy masters would be visible.
“I wish I knew how to dance like them,” he thought, his eyes wide with amazement. It was not long before they landed on the blue suit of Thomas.
“What a color!” the boy exclaimed. It was astonishing to him that someone could wear such bright clothes that inevitably attracted attention. He believed it was more sensible not to stand out. Only those who feared nothing could possibly invite others to notice them.
Pretty soon his eyes wandered on to the woman in red, whereupon they widened even further than they did a minute ago. “Oh!” he gasped. “How pretty she looks!” He pressed his head against the window to get a better look.
The next thing he knew, he was sprawled out on the snow and there were several faces looking at him through the window from the other side. He looked around shyly, realising that in his wish to study the people of the house, he had forgotten all about the delicate stool he had placed for height and had clumsily lost his balance.
The man in blue, whom the boy knew as Mr. O'Neill, ran outside to offer a hand. He was followed by the strange lady in red, who was the unwitting—and unsuspecting—source of all this trouble.
“Are you hurt?” she asked kindly once the boy had brushed himself off.
“No, ma'am,” came the timid reply.
“Nonsense!” she said with a royal sweep, and reached out a hand. “You've got a cut on your leg. Come in and we'll take care of it.”
The boy hesitated a moment, but took the hand, thinking it would be better to obey.
“What a curious thing,” chuckled Mr. O'Neill. “What on earth were you doing outside in this ghastly weather, boy?”
The boy blushed, reluctant to reveal his circumstances. Thankfully, the lady came to the rescue.
“Oh, hush, Thomas!” she said. “Must you always be so inquisitive?”
At this, Thomas merely shrugged and opened the door to let the two companions in. No one noticed his amused grin as their backs were turned.
Inside, the dancing had resumed after the little distraction. Lillian had already washed the boy's wound and was now bandaging gently around it while the boy watched with fascination. The bandage felt so smooth and clean around his skin, and the lady's swift movement was no less captivating.
“There now,” she said softly, as the bandage made its last turn around his ankle. “Now how about a quick cup of hot chocolate? Martha will make you one in the kitchen.”
The boy opened his mouth to decline the offer, but the lady stopped him with a wink.
“That wasn't a question.”
She pointed out one of the doors with her fan and gave him a mild pat on the back. He gulped and nodded, then scrambled away in a hurry.
When the boy was gone out of sight, Thomas chortled loudly. Lillian turned around and gave an inquiring look.
“I think he was spying on us,” said Thomas.
“Poor thing,” sighed Lillian. “All alone and without family!”
Thomas lit a cigarette and shook his head thoughtfully. “Can't imagine a Christmas without family, can you?”
“No,” she replied so quietly that it almost sounded like a whisper. Suddenly she looked up with a jerk of her head. “I wonder...” she trailed off.
“What is it?” asked Thomas. His cigarette was almost out and he considered getting out his pipe. It had been a while since he smoked one, since he had skipped it altogether the day before, so concentrated was he on chumming with his annual guests.
“I wonder,” continued Lillian, sounding as if she were treading dangerous territory and had to choose her next step with great care, “if it is possible we invite him to dinner.”
Thomas gazed at her steadily. His hand reached for the pipe, giving him time for contemplation.
“Hmm,” he grunted curtly. His reaction was a long time coming and Lillian observed him with her keen eyes that tried to fathom a decision behind the mask.
Finally the verdict arrived, carried by the smoke that swirled forth from the now fully-lit pipe.
“Lillian,” Thomas reproached. “We have guests.”
Lillian tilted her head slightly. A displeased look dwelled in her blue eyes. She was by no means a radical, but she resented the force of custom that trampled all over the generous holiday spirit. She grimaced in dissatisfaction, looking momentarily like a pouting child.
Upon seeing this, Thomas winced and re-evaluated his previous response, determining that it was a tad hasty and cold. As a fitting comeback he offered a little consolation.
“He may eat in the kitchen.”
Lillian smiled gratefully, though it was a sad smile that intruded the beautiful contours of her face. She nodded at Thomas and proceeded into the room where the guests were standing. With a wary sigh, Thomas trailed along, puffing vigorously for solace.
They were not a mean folk, quite the contrary. Nonetheless, etiquette was the ever-dominant force of society and, free-spirited though they were, they dared not overturn the state of things in one night. After all, they were only two young birds in a forest filled with predators. But what they didn't know was that this forest had an annual present of its own. At the end of the day, it was Christmas.
When Lillian stepped into the parlour, her heart was heavier than it had been when she left it. Her face was still a delightful plate of holiday cheer, but her feet were trudging on the carpet. They carried the weight of pity that had entered her body, although the red dress did well to conceal this burden.
“Ah, there you are!” exclaimed one of the ladies, addressing Lillian. Then she turned abruptly to Thomas and rebuked haughtily. “Quite rude of you to abandon us, Mr. O'Neill!”
The assembly bobbed their heads in agreement, but a few mischievous grins managed to escape from the facade, causing the two guilty parties to smile.
“Mrs. Swilton, you disappoint me. I was counting on you to replace me as host for the five minutes I was away.”
“Hmph!” sniffed Mrs Swilton. “You speak too soon. I daresay you will be pleased to hear what we have been up to in your absence. We have a proposal to make.”
While this drama was going on in the main room, the little boy sat quietly in the kitchen, sipping cautiously on the hot chocolate lest he missed a drop. He had never tasted anything so delightful. He could feel the warm liquid sliding down his throat and thought he could step out into the cold and still feel the heat in him.
“Drink up,” pressed Martha, mistaking his slowness for an unwilling disposition.
The boy took a larger sip, not wanting to anger the maid. He spied at her from the safety of his mug, his eyes peeking out from the rim as he drank. When he saw the women in the kitchen load mountains of food onto fancy dishes, he put down his mug and devoted his time to gawking. The food was so colourful it didn't seem edible. In fact, some were only meant as decorations but the boy did not know this yet. He watched the provisions being laid out by the dozen and didn't even notice when he started drooling on the table.
“Watch it!” yelled Martha, snapping him out of the reverie. “You can leave as soon as you're done. This is a busy area.”
Frightened by the maid's tone, the boy slipped off the chair and headed hurriedly towards the door, afraid to get in anyone's way. When he reached the door, he turned around to get a last good look at the turkey that was gleaming invitingly on the table. He smacked his lips as if he were tasting the meat and took a reluctant step out into the hall when he bumped into someone coming through the doorway. He found his face buried in a mysterious ruffle. The sound of merry laughter reached his ears before he could see what was happening.
“Leaving so soon?” said Thomas, who was leaning on one side of the entrance.
“Oh, dear, the boy is bored of us already!” cried Mrs. Swilton.
Confused, the boy looked up to face Lillian, whose dress he was buried in a moment ago.
“Don't listen to them. Tell me,” she began, “what is your name?”
“William, ma'am,” he replied. Then he added, “Will for short.”
The adults smiled and William thought they resembled dominoes in the way their smiles spread from one end to the other.
“Well, William, it is my pleasure to invite you to dinner with us.”
Martha and the maids turned, astounded by the proposition. William waited expectantly for someone to give him an order, but after a time he began to think that it was they who were all waiting for something. Finally, the suspense exhausted him and he opened his mouth.
“Yes, ma'am,” he said shortly.
Thomas stood up straight. “You accept our offer then?”
“Offer, sir?” asked William, still confused.
“Oh, Thomas, you're making him nervous,” Lillian fussed. Then she spoke slowly, stressing every word so there could be no mistake in communication. “Would you like to have dinner with us, Will?”
Will's eyes widened for the millionth time. “Yes, ma'am,” he repeated.
The human dominoes began to shake with good-natured laughter, but didn't fall like the game pieces. Instead they parted to create a passage so that the latest addition to the party could make it to the parlour.
“Come along. Make way, make way!” shouted Lillian, resuming her jovial dance as she pushed little William towards the Christmas tree.
Thomas placed his hands on Lillian's shoulders, skipping as he yelled, “Follow the queen!”
That was their cue. First Mrs. Swilton, then Mr. Johnson, then Mrs. Johnson, then Mr. Wilfred, then the rest of the merry crew all attached themselves to one another, forming a long dancing chain. Someone burst out in spontaneous song, an act warmly welcomed by all.
“Deck the halls with boughs of holly, fa la la la la la la la la!”
“'Tis the season to be jolly, fa la la la la la la la la!”
On the roof of the house, icicles were starting to form, so cold was the night air. But the inhabitants and the guests of the house were oblivious to this fact. Tonight, not even the iron grip of custom could pull them away from their holiday jingle.
© Loni Klara. December 2010
Back to topBy Faye Louise Judkins - 2nd Place
A wise person once said that ‘life is what happens to you when you’re busy making other plans’, John Lennon I think. Well, nothing rings truer for this tale’s heroine, Rose Eleanor Johnson, who had, for the first time in her 28 years, awoke on Christmas day feeling sad. She tried to rub the sleep away from her tired eyes, and then felt her cheeks, dry from the tears that had run down them. She lay there for a little while, thinking about how she usually looks forward to spending this wonderful day surrounded by her family, and how, that this year she was dreading even getting out of bed, let alone leaving the house. She could hear the Church bells ringing merrily away lifting spirits and creating cheer. She listened to excited children thrilled about the falling snow, and trying to hurry up their parents in the return home from church, eager to open their presents. She wanted to join in with all this, in the merriment, and be a part of the stream of glad tidings being exchanged between neighbours and friends.
It may be teeming with life outside her window, but inside all she could hear was silence. Silence except the light snoring of her husband still fast asleep beside her. She turned to look at him, and felt the tears welling up behind her eyes. After an argument last night, she had gone to bed early, and did not even hear him come in. Rose and Chris may have not been married for long, but it is safe to say this couple is drifting apart, and had been since the birth of a still born child not long ago. You see, this baby was going to be a Christmas miracle for this couple who so desperately wanted a child. If you saw the nursery they had decorated for the little boy you would understand just how much.
Chris had found her crying in there last night, and asked her to talk to him. She said she couldn’t. He asked again, and she replied with a tearful ‘ok, you want to talk? Let’s talk!” Rose told him she felt guilty beyond belief, so guilty it made her feel ill; that she felt like she had let him down, and couldn’t look him in the eye without feeling like this and wanting to cry. Chris was genuinely surprised that she should think it was her fault. It had not even crossed his mind to blame her, and her frank confession shocked him. He too was devasted, of course he was, but he knew that together they could get through this. When he asked her if this was the end, she had shrugged her shoulders and shook her head, as if to say ‘I don’t know’. Since he was speechless, he decided to give her space, and paced around, churning her words over and over in his head, while she, in the room next door, fell asleep.
Chris walked in to the kitchen, and wondered when the reminders of this child, and the hole he left in their lives, would end. He had, a month ago written a list of things that he wanted for Christmas and stuck it under a fridge magnet. It had been a semi-joke at the time, but when he looked at it again all those things seemed meaningless to him. This year he only had one wish. If he could have anything, he thought to himself, it would be not to lose his wife as well. He loved Rose more than he had ever expected. It was unbearable for him to look at her and see the spark in her eyes that he loved so much had gone. She no longer radiated an aura of happiness that rubbed off on the people around her, nor lit up the room when she entered. He could not bear listening to her cry herself to sleep at night. He would awake early each morning, as the sun light crept over the horizon and through the gap in the curtains. He could see the mascara stains on her face. All this was breaking his heart, piece by piece.
Chris had promised to spend it with her family and in return Rose had promised to put on a brave face. At two o’clock they undertook the ten minute walk to her parents’ house. Everyone was welcoming and pleased to see her. Her family are incredibly loving and supportive, and great throughout this whole ordeal. Rose knew she may well be able to fool her siblings with her brave act, but not her mother. Not a chance. Tess knew her daughter too well to believe she was ok. Rose reluctantly had to admit to herself that she had never been so pleased to see her mother, and despite having avoided / ignored everyone since leaving the hospital, she felt a little bit better knowing that her family only wanted to be there for her. She felt a rush of warmth when her mother gave her a hug, because nothing cheered her up like her mother.
Needless to say, the hardest part was seeing her nieces and nephews. Mainly because children, as you may well be aware, are far from subtle, and the thing she had wanted to forget, was abruptly forced back in to the fore front of her mind, when little Helen asked her where the baby was. Laura, Rose’s quick-thinking sister, managed to distract Helen away from this topic, but Rose appreciated the child’s honesty. She knew that she had not been dealing with it properly, and was aware that everyone had been treading on egg shells around her, but it was not until this moment that she realised just how much she hated it. Why shouldn’t she be able to talk about the baby? Why shouldn’t Chris? She didn’t like to admit it, but she was being selfish, and feeling sorry for herself was not helping anyone - certainly was not doing any good to her marriage to her wonderful husband. This baby was, a short chapter in her life, but it was a big one. One she does not want to, nor will, forget. Rose smiled to herself as she remembered how excited Helen had got when she found out her aunt was having a baby. She had, Laura told her, emptied her piggy bank later that day, handed the three pounds saved inside it to her mother, and said she wanted to use that money to buy a teddy bear.
Chris had been carrying a very full and very heavy jug of water from the kitchen to the living room when it happened. One of those slow motion moments you see in films. He was so intent on not spilling the contents he didn’t notice the toy he was about to trip over, one of the many toys the little ones had scattered throughout the house. Unfortunately for Rose (and no one was quite sure how he managed it) all the water ended up in her direction. She was soaked, and her shocked gasp was enough to silence the whole room. The quiet before the storm, because most of the witnesses took one look at her, and thought she may be about to shout at him. But no, she took one look at her husband who was lying on the floor with an apologetic and slightly worried look on his face and burst out laughing. Slightly shocked, Chris also started laughing, and it wasn’t long before everyone had joined in. With a smile on her face, she held out her hand to help up her husband, and told him to get up.
In short, Chris got his wish.
© Faye Louise Judkins. December 2010
Back to topBy Charlotte Bailey- 3rd Place
He was not thinking when he jumped into the River Thames to rescue the woman who he had just seen leap off Kingston Bridge. It was a surprisingly instinctive reaction which added to the shock of the sharp drop in his body temperature as he hit the water. It left him cold and breathless, even though it was an unusually mild Christmas.
He swam towards the hysterical woman who was now only a few feet away. The steadiness of the voice he used to call out surprised him. Reaching her he used one arm to grab her waist and the other to swim towards the shore. The two of them fought their way through the capital’s river which flowed fast, oblivious to their suffering; aggressively taking their body heat faster than their energetic struggling could generate it. He started to believe that it would drain them completely.
The water at the riverbank was shallow enough for him to stand and push her to safety, although his feet sunk alarmingly into the riverbed with the force of his effort. Soberness fell on the inebriated Christmas revellers that surrounded the couple and several offered to call an ambulance. The man turned to them and asked for their coats which he used to wrap around the woman who was trembling forcefully and breathing rapidly. The physical contact seemed to awaken her from the introspection she was falling into and the man thought she was only now aware of his presence. They looked at each other, fleetingly, and she said ‘thank you’ quietly, and looked down.
In the ambulance, sitting next to the quiet but quivering woman the man’s urge to help remained, but they were safe now and he could offer no more practical assistance. The coats he had wrapped around her had been replaced by a hypothermia blanket which seemed to be doing a better job anyway. It made a crunching sound, and the orange hues of the streetlamps they drove past danced off the shimmering coating.
‘We look like Christmas decorations’ the rescuer said, referring to his matching blanket.
She looked up and a ghostly smile appeared and disappeared so quickly it might have been imagined.
And then: ‘I swam in that river before you know… when I was younger… I learnt to canoe there’
It was an odd statement, given the circumstances, but perhaps nothing really made sense in this situation. Anyway, he saw it as an invitation to talk more. He asked her if she was feeling better.
She told him that she was, but he did not believe her. She spoke about the cancer that had killed her mother three months ago, the hundred hour weeks she had been working in her job as a city lawyer, the crushing pressure, the boyfriend who had broken up with her because she never had time to see him. He had asked her: ‘why can’t you quit?’ He did not understand that she could not quit, that this job was everything she had spent her undergraduate at Oxford and two years of law school for. Her family had sacrificed a lot to pay for her education. She had sacrificed a lot. Even the Grade 8 piano she had achieved had helped her to get the job. The law firm liked extra curricular activities, apparently, even though once they gave you the job you could kiss goodbye to ever doing anything extra curricular again, she said.
The man listened to her. It is as if nobody has listened to this woman in years, he thought. He heard about her mother and the violent loss and helpless loneliness she had felt since she had died. She talked about her guilt, that she had not visited enough, that she had not worked hard enough. The man noticed that sometimes she didn’t really make sense, that her thought patterns were disrupted and going in circles instead of in a straight line. She had wanted to visit her father in the North of England for Christmas but she had been made to work late and so was not able to catch the train.
They were shown into the hospital where everything was bright and loud: the startling white of the lights, the cheap tinsel draped clumsily over the fake Christmas tree, several intoxicated patients.
She was crying again, apologising and telling him that she was selfish. She was sorry. The man could tell she was sorry. She still trembled.
A tenderness that he had not felt in years rose up in him and he put his arm around her and told her it was okay. He said that he had never had a job like that, but it sounded like she needed some time off. He also said: ‘you need to be less hard on yourself’. He told her she shouldn’t hate herself, she needn’t feel so guilty. The man’s thoughts drifted to his own past; his mother had also died, when he was a child and he could relate to her suffering. He recognised the throbbing ache of loneliness that sometimes worsened suddenly, becoming an acute pain. Christmas is definitely one of those times.
The warmth of the waiting room had finally begun to work its way into her rigid muscles and her trembling became less violent. She is calmer now, the man thought.
The woman was taken away for treatment but he would have to wait a little longer. He said he didn’t mind. They said goodbye, gratitude showing her eyes, as well as a slight self-awareness that had not been there before.
Yes, she is definitely calmer now. Sometimes you just need someone to listen, he thought. As soon as she was out of sight he turned and walked out of the hospital, not staying to wait for treatment because he didn’t think he needed any. Back out into the night he hurried through the streets towards the destination he had been travelling to before he had seen the young woman hurl herself from the bridge. He pushed open the doors, stepped into the building and was greeted by the familiar faces of the volunteers at the homeless shelter. He smiled with relief as they told him there was still a bed available and offered him some tea. Yes, people are important he thought. Of course, there had been a chance he could have stayed the whole night in the hospital, but he hadn’t wanted to risk it. All he wanted was to wake up somewhere warm and dry on Christmas morning.
© Charlotte Bailey. December 2010
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